


Long Live the Day.

by runrarebit



Series: Descent [1]
Category: Star Wars - All Media Types
Genre: Hints at Child Abuse, Hints at force sensitive hux, Interference with autonomy, M/M, Self indulgent navel-gazing like usual, Spoilers, Titles are not my forte, Violence, past dubious consent
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-04
Updated: 2018-01-04
Packaged: 2019-02-28 06:00:59
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,277
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13265202
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/runrarebit/pseuds/runrarebit
Summary: I figured I might as well post this. Not sure if there'll ever be more.Hux's morning after the movie before.





	Long Live the Day.

Hux wakes unmolested. The strangeness of this makes him jerk upright, heart pounding. Then he remembers. The Supreme Leader is dead, long live Kylo bloody Ren. 

He sits there, in his berth, until his heartrate drops, trying to ignore the way it spikes as nothing happens to him. Nothing grabs at him, gropes him, pulls him about, strikes him, strips him, spreads him for an indifferent fuck. There is no form, no body be it flesh or force in the room with him. Millicent died with Starkiller, the Supreme Leader died at the hands of that girl, Ren’s obsession. 

Eventually he gets up. His body aches, bruised and broken, throat an absolute mess. It occurs to him he can put some bacta on it now. The Supreme Leader is hardly going to punish him for seeking treatment for Force inflicted injuries now he’s dead. He’s dead. Snoke is dead. His entire body almost convulses with wrong at even referring to him so informally in his head. 

There are things that need doing. He has to bathe, eat, dress, assume his duties. He feels off. His thoughts are muddied. He does not know if he feels grief. His right hand raises to clutch at the bruising around his throat. 

Bathe, that’s step one. These days he sleeps in his underwear, plain navy briefs and a white vest, easier for the Supreme Leader- no, Snoke- to remove. He prefers pyjamas, they cover more flesh. That’s another thing he supposes he can do now, dress to please himself.

In truth he is still trying to conceive how different his life might be now. He slept the night through and woke to his alarm without summons or visitation from Snoke, and even without disaster anywhere on the fleet he needed to deal with personally. Disaster enough had happened the day before. Exhaustion had driven him beyond dreaming. A few more years of such sleep and he may one day wake feeling refreshed.

He strips and lets his clothing fall to the floor, padding naked towards the refresher. He should drop them in the laundry chute, that’s what he always does, but he cannot bring himself to bend his pained and brittle body to pick them up. Some part if him must still bow to duty because they skid across the floor to pile before the hatch in the wall. One of his feet must kick them over, though he is not aware of doing so.

Sonic will hurt. It always seems to do so when he’s injured. On Arkanis they only ever had water showers, there being enough of the stuff, and even after all these years he prefers them. Even though his rank gives him the choice between the two he never lets himself indulge unless he’s on leave, and he’s never on leave. His hand must slip though, because perfectly warm water cascades over him as he steps into the small cubicle even though he’s sure he selected sonic. Since the water recycles itself there is no time limit bar the limits inflicted by duty. Duty has never been less appealing.

He washes efficiently, hands not lingering. His body is a mottled wreck of bruises and probable fractures, abuse after abuse inflicted at the whim of both Supreme Leaders. He feels as if Kylo Ren is still strangling him, his breath whistling a little in his throat. His arse feels hollowed out, shatteringly sore and swollen from the Supreme Lea-SNOKE, Snoke’s use. He has not felt this bad since his father was alive.

His father is dead. The Supreme Leader is dead. 

He is a mass murderer. The thought comes across him suddenly and he gasps, chokes a little on the water. He hunches forwards, pressing his aching face to the cool plasteel of the cubicle wall. Starkiller.  
His father’s voice rings in his head, the Supreme Leader’s echoing behind it-“invent a better Deathstar.” And he had. All hypotheticals. Shouldn’t be implemented. Hadn’t done what they wanted the first time. Won’t quash rebellion. Impossible without at least some structural liabilities. Would need to be well defended. 

He can remember the way the planet felt beneath his feet. Red light. Throat sore from screeching. Destroying and being destroyed. Genocide, or near enough. His nails scratch at the skin around his throat. He can’t breathe. 

The sky had been so big and black on Arkanis, suns and worlds glowing white specks. When he looked up at night he felt like he would be devoured, sucked out of his body, drawn fine as a thread out into a quiet, empty peace. He gasps in a breath. Another. He finishes bathing.

When he’s dry he smears bacta all over every sore part he can reach, fingering it deep inside, and then washes his hands. His eyes are still the same pale as the day before and the day before that. They look nearly hollow. He looks malnourished, bruised and exhausted. It is time to dress.

Perhaps he should go to medical. Perhaps he it more injured, concussed, in shock than he thought because he has never dressed so clumsily in his life. Everything item of clothing he reaches for seems to lurch into his hands. He fears he will tear his underwear, his vest, be strangled by his shirt, trip over his trousers. His boots seem to slither up his calves, his cap straightens itself on his head. He glances at his greatcoat on its stand nervously. This is madness. The new Supreme Leader must have shaken something loose in his head while he was strangling him. His perceptions are obviously distorted. Still, he cannot see himself surrendering into the care of a medidroid and leaving Kylo Ren loose to terrorize the remains of his First Order.

Still keeping an eye on his greatcoat he eats a plain rationbar and sips at a glass of water. The food feels heavy in his stomach. He cannot remember eating the day before. The Supreme Leader- No- No, he has to keep them distinct in his head. If he does not Kylo Ren will be able to see it in his mind and he’ll end up being strangled again. Snoke had wanted him early, roughly and in person. On his lap on the throne. Then everything else had happened. It wouldn’t be the first time he forgot to eat. 

He returns to the refresher to clean his teeth. He’s stalling for time, he realises that. Most days he’s up and out the door the moment Snoke’s ardour has cooled, eager to take up his mantle of General, eager to lead his troops, eager to strive for victory, eager in his quest for dominion. He is the First Order, he has been the First Order since the day his father first stood him before Snoke and he saw the future unspooling behind his eyes. He has lived conviction for all of them, but today he has none. He cannot feel it. His faith is gone.

A blink and a scrabble and he finds himself in his wardrobe, pushing himself as hard as he can into the furthest corner of the small space. He must hide. He must be quiet. His father is coming. He will be taken for reconditioning for reconditioning for reconditioning for reconditioning for reconditioning for reconditioning for reconditioning reconditioning reconditioning reconditioning reconditioning reconditioning reconditioning …

Something beeps. It beeps again. He’s being hailed from the bridge. Scrambling out of his wardrobe he checks his chronometre. He’s late.

The greatcoat swings around his shoulders light as air. He is ready, as ready as he ever is going to be. He steps out of his quarters.


End file.
